Tag Archives: dog

Hot Cars Kill Dogs

Recently I have seen a sharp increase in a particular message being display on my Facebook newsfeed.  “Hot Cars Kill Dogs”.  Many of my friends have posted this message as a plea to help the poor animals.   I find this statement just slightly misleading.  The car isn’t killing the animal, the owner is.  It’s time to wake up and stop blaming the vehicle.

But what I find even more perplexing is why the owners of hot cars kill more dogs than the owners of average cars.  Almost all models of the Jaguar and the Porsche brand names are considered “hot” cars.  What happens to the mind of the owners of these hot cars after they purchase their hot vehicles?  Suddenly they become blood thirsty with the strong desire to kill household pets.  What is difference between them and people who purchase a Honda Accord or a Chevrolet Aveo?

Average cars:  Honda, Chevy:  Dog lovers

Hot cars:  Jaguar, Porsche:  Dog slayers

Frank just bought a Porsche, now when people walk their dog across his sidewalk, he chases them down and he kicks the helpless animal.

Bob just bought a Honda, now he volunteers at the neighborhood animal shelter.

Can you image how much hatred of dogs must course through the veins of the owners of a Lamborghini or a Ferrari?  These cars are extremely hot cars.  I’d bet that if you ran a nationwide survey of missing dog reports and correlate the results to areas surrounding households in which the owners possess a Ferrari, you will find significant overlapping statistics.

You need more evidence?

I just finished watching the final installment of the Twilight movie series with my family.  In case you live on the moon (Netflix won’t ship DVDs there), this series of movies was about the Cullen family—a family of vampires.  In this story, the vampire named Edward drove a hot silver Volvo S60R and he was a blood sucking consumer of animals, some of which I’m sure were dogs.  Rosalie drove a BMW M3 convertible; a very hot car.  She too enjoyed eating helpless animals.  Carisle’s Mercedes S55 AMG was another hot automobile and once again, she would enjoy a good dog roast.

Bella, prior to her transformation into a vampire, was driving a beat-up red pickup truck.  Not a hot vehicle at all.  She had no desire to drink the blood of dogs.  None what-so-ever.

Oh no!  Was that a movie spoiler?  I’m sorry.  I should have written “Spoiler Alert”.  Obviously, I’m not that sorry since I still have a chance to edit this piece.  Odd.

And speaking of spoilers, you know those “tail fins”, otherwise known as spoilers, that young men place on the edge of their car’s trunk in order to make their car appear slightly faster without any costly changes to the engine.  Yeah, I’ll bet those boys suddenly have a slight, but noticeable urge, to trip dogs down a flight of stairs.  I’ll have to do more research.

(blogging trend goes here:  wrap up your article by asking questions)

Are you now suspicious of people driving hot cars?

What kind of hot car do you drive?

How many dogs have you killed?

Buy my hot book (which statistically has no dog killing correlations)

Hold On

“Please continue to hold.  Your call is important to us.”

Hold on?  Hold on?  I’ve been holding on the entire time!  I’ve been clutching this phone for about three hours now.  Is that what people mean by “hold on”?  I should “hold on” to my phone.

I’m writing this entry while being placed into the state of “hold on”.  I have my little cell phone precariously perched upon my shoulder.  Technically, I am not “holding on” to anything.  The phone is being pinched by ear and neck muscles.  Who are they to tell me what I should be doing while waiting for the operator to come back on the line?  I’ll do whatever I want while I listen to the static filled bad jazz music.  I’m not actually holding on to anything.  I won’t do it.  In fact, I will not “hold on”, I will use my hands to type!  So there!

“Please continue to type.  Your call is sort of important to us.”

Since I was forced into the action of “hold”, I had some time to ponder the phrase “hold on”.  When I say that I had time, I mean a lot of time.  My teenage children almost grew up, graduated from college, and produced my grandchildren before the operator came back on the line.

The phrase “hold on” has come to mean “please wait”, only it’s not as polite.  You almost never hear someone say “please hold on”.  No.  It’s usually just “hold on”.  I thought about the phrase “hold on” so much that the intended meaning of “wait” started to fade away and the physical meaning of “hold on to something” started to emerge.  Now I can’t shake it.  Now, when someone says “hold on”, I assume they want me to grasp onto something.

I was at the deli counter yesterday and the person working the meat slicer said, “Hold on.  I’ll be with you in a minute.”  There was nothing to “hold on” to.  So I sat on the floor next to my grocery cart.  People were staring, but I was concerned that maybe she had some knowledge of a pending earthquake.  Or perhaps she was about to start throwing large chunks of ham at me, but didn’t want to knock me down.

You can hear “hold on, the doors are closing” when riding a subway or an airport tram.  What happens if you don’t chose to obey but rather purposely keep you hands free of any and all objects?  What if you didn’t hear the announcement and you didn’t “hold on”?  The doors might never actually close.  You be faced with an angry mob of people trying to get to their destination.  They’ll all be glaring at you while they “hold on” to the rails and you stand there all clueless with absolutely nothing in your hands.  Things could get ugly.

If we tell my dog that we are going for a walk, he goes nuts until we are outside.  He will start barking and running from door to door trying to figure out which side of the house we will be exiting from.  I’ll say, “Hold on.  I have to get the leash.”  That’s kind of rude of me to say “hold on” to a dog.  The poor creature doesn’t even have thumbs.  He couldn’t “hold on” even if he wanted to.  I can picture him saying, “Hey, I wouldn’t ask you to carry me, if you didn’t have arms!”  Only, my dog can’t talk.

I heard a mother tell her infant baby to “hold on”.  She was pulling a bottle from her bag as her kid was crying.  “Hold on.  I almost have it, sweetie.”  Although the baby did in fact have the required opposable digits to achieve the action of “holding”, she did not yet develop the dexterity to actually be able to “hold on”.  The only thing her thumbs were good for was involuntarily scratching her own cheeks and gouging her own eyes.

Hold on.  This blog entry is about to end.

I can see all of you actually reaching out to “hold on” to something.  Not really.  I can’t actually see you.  That would be creepy if I could.

Hold on.  You are about to buy my books.

Dog Owner

I know this story might not make me too many new friends, but here goes.

Being a dog owner does not necessarily mean you are a dog lover.

There, I said it!  I know this is an unpopular stance in the blog world, but here is my take. There are bazillions of examples of blogs dedicated to dogs and their cuteness and all. I get it. I understand that a dog is a man’s best friend—at least I’ve heard that saying. It just doesn’t necessarily apply to this man. My boys cracked me and turned me into a dog owner after only ten years of their own existence. I bought a dog several years ago. I still can’t believe it roams in my house. We brought this dog home and I named him Peeve. As in pet Peeve. My very own living, breathing pet Peeve.

Not cute when barfing on the carpet.

He is a Maltese Yorkie. When full-grown, this little ball of doggy cuteness will not top more than ten pounds. If he surpasses that weight, I will start removing parts until the ten pound limit is once again reached. Relax, I would do it humanely—start with the tail, move to the ears, find other non-essential parts. Come to think of it, he has already been fixed, so technically I’ve already started this process.

So tell me, how many of your “best friends” will graze in your front yard, eat as many rabbit turds as possible, and then barf them up on your carpet in three different rooms of your house? Man’s best friend. Nope.

And speaking of pet peeves, it rubs me completely wrong when people refer to me as the dog’s daddy. I am the dog’s owner. I paid for, with money, to have this beast live in my house and occasionally eat my wood-work. It didn’t require a single strand of my DNA, not even a single helix, to bring this dog into the world. So when people say to my dog as they pass by my yard, “Good doggy. Go back to your daddy!” I cringe inside and want to scream! “I’m the dog OWNER, not the father! Are you implying that maybe I had inappropriate relations with a dog? And this is the result, my son?”  But I’ll just clench my teeth and be silent–until I blog about it.

My dog (that I own) brings my children happiness. That’s what I bought into.  If I would have known that all this happiness comes from a creature that occasionally craps on the carpet, I could have handled the job myself.

Buy my book or I’ll crap on your carpet!

Rude Awakening

This weekend didn’t bring me a story to tell other than this very short one.  No worries, I had a great weekend.

When taking a nap, it is no fun to wake up hearing the following phrase echoing through your house.

“The dog is barfing everywhere!”

Remind me why I let a wild beast live in my house.

buy my book (no dog barf included)!